The Frost Of The Stars
by Gil Shalos1
Summary: Post "Sunflower". Telling himself he is happy to be retired, Foyle is fishing, reading, and trying to prod Andrew into finding some direction to his life, when an unexpected visitor and a puzzling crime lead him back to the murky corners of London's underworld, and the murkier corners of England's espionage community. Follows 'Tongued With Fire', Bletchley Circle X-over
1. Ripping The Stitch Of Grief

A/N: Longer summary (here because of ff's character limit): A few weeks after the events of "Sunflower", Foyle is back in Hastings. He is filling his days with fishing, reading, and trying to prod Andrew into finding some direction to his life, when an unexpected visitor and a puzzling crime lead him back to the murky corners of London's underworld, and the murkier corners of England's espionage community.

In the series "Ill Met By Moonlight", "The Year's Midnight" and "Tongued With Fire", this Bletchley Circle X-over will ultimately feature Foyle, Andrew, Sam Wainwright nee Stewart, Adam Wainwright, Susan Havers, Millie, Lucy Davies, Jean McBrian, Hilda Pierce, Jen Chenard/Jeanne Valois/Jenny Pawley/Jean Marcus, and some other familiar faces and original characters. F&S, hints of Andrew/Sam, no doubt plenty of F/S subtext, humor, crime, some angst, some h/c, some implied f/f, some violence, some period-appropriate bad language and some period-appropriate language that modern readers may find offensive.

Everything I know about crime in London in the 1940s, or indeed London in the 1940s, I learned from the Internet, errors are doubtless rife. 'Foyle's War' and the characters therein obviously do not belong to me. Slightly AU in that the minor changes I made to the Foyle's War canon in previous stories continue to be in force; and in that the four women of the Bletchley Circle here meet up again in 1946, rather than, as in the series, going their separate ways until 1952.

All reviews gratefully received.

The title and chapter headings are from the 1941 poem _The Ballad of the Mari Lwyd _by Vernon Watkins, who worked, during WWII, at Bletchley Park.

The codes _are_ breakable, although you might want to apply higher tech means than pencil and paper, but for those of you without the inclination to try, you are missing out on nothing from the plot or mystery. I will _not_ be posting any hints in the body of the story but, if you are stuck, you can PM me for a clue.

This may well be posted far more slowly than previous stories because I am still working out some of the finer details of the plot.

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Ripping The Stitch Of Grief

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6 October 1946

Foyle cast the line out over the river, flicking the fly back and forth across the surface of the water before letting it settle where the darker color of the eddies indicated deeper water. The sun was not yet above the trees and the long shadows of its early rays striped the scene before him. The day stretched ahead, empty of responsibility and filled with possibility: a walk by the sea, perhaps, or a spot of gardening; the ticklish business of working on the new lure he had an idea for, or thrashing Andrew at golf. He could drive up to London and surprise Sam, perhaps, or get to grips with the new book on Japan that had arrived from the bookshop yesterday.

Whatever the day held, he knew, it would _not_ hold another sordid crime scene, another broken body, another labyrinthine espionage plot. That, Foyle told himself, was exactly as it should be, and he was nothing but pleased at the knowledge that _that _part of his life lay firmly in the past.

Perhaps he would save his visit to the Wainwrights until tomorrow. The travel and the visit would take care of almost an entire day; if he stretched out the work the garden needed that would fill most of the afternoon, which would leave Tuesday for reading. And by Tuesday, no doubt, he would come up with something for Wednesday, perhaps -

"Hello."

It was a familiar voice, for all he had heard it only a few times: the low timbre, the half-swallowed vowels. Foyle's fingers stilled on the line for just a fraction of a second, and then he drew the lure across the surface of the water a little to keep it clear of the bank, and turned.

James Devereaux stood at the edge of the clearing, hat pushed to the back of his head, hands in his pockets. There was more color in his face than the last time Foyle had seen him, and he'd filled out in the shoulders slightly. His suit was newish, despite rationing, and fit well, but neither it nor his hat were of particularly good quality. What showed of his hair was cut shorter than Foyle remembered.

He took in all those details in the time it took him to take a breath and say, mildly: "Mr Devereaux. Or I should say, _Constable _Devereaux, and _congratulations, _by the way."

The younger man smiled, ducking his head. "Thank you. I suspect I'm in your debt, there … again."

"Not at all," Foyle said. "Nothing to do with me, entirely on your own merit." It was true: he would certainly have been willing to put in a good word for Devereaux with the Commissioner but none had been needed.

"I hope I'm not disturbing you," Devereaux said, still studying his feet. "I should have _called_ … I went to your house and a young man told me I'd find you down here."

"Andrew," Foyle said. "My son."

Devereaux looked up. "Andrew," he said, as if rolling the idea of Andrew Foyle around in his head as he rolled the name in his mouth.

"And you're not disturbing me, I'm very glad to see you," Foyle said. He waded back to the bank and laid his rod down. "Down from London?" At the younger man's nod, he said: "You must have started very early. Is this a social call, or is there something I can help with?"

Devereaux looked embarrassed. "There is actually something," he admitted. "I'm not sure you can _help_, exactly, but I hoped you could give me some advice."

"Happy to," Foyle assured him. "How long can you stay?"

"I have to get back tonight," Devereaux said. "On shift tomorrow."

"Ri-ight, well," Foyle said, picking up his rod again, "if you can spare me a little while here we'll make sure you have a decent lunch, at least."

Devereaux settled down on the bank to watch as Foyle cast again. Whether because of his natural reticence, or an understanding of how acute a fish's hearing could be, he said nothing as Foyle delicately tempted the trout he _knew_ was lurking beneath the trailing branches of the old willow on the opposite bank. It investigated the lure, retreated, and then struck. It was a devilishly ticklish piece of work to land it, the fish clearly a canny survivor of other such battles, but in Foyle it had met its match and eventually he had in the net. _Even Andrew can't complain at this one_, Foyle thought, lifting it clear of the water, and then, turning, surprised something on Devereaux's face that made him hesitate.

He lowered the net back into the river and deftly extracted the hook from the trout's jaw before tipping the fish back into the river. Wading back to the bank, he said: "There's always spam sandwiches."

Devereaux looked down, hiding his face, as he got to his feet. "If fish have gods," he said unexpectedly, "they must imagine them to be much like anglers."

"Striking unexpectedly?" Foyle said, beginning to pack up his gear. _God has certainly dealt James Devereaux more than one unanticipated blow._

"Inexplicable mercy," Devereaux said. He smiled, the same tight smile Foyle had seen in the cell, but there was self-deprecation in the expression now, not self-mockery.

They walked back to the house talking only of inconsequentialities: the recent tragic air-crash in Canada, the political future of Sweden. At the steps, Foyle paused. "I haven't …" _told Andrew about you._

"I won't …" Devereaux said, lowering his head to glance up at Foyle beneath the brim of his hat.

"Thank you," Foyle said, and opened the door.

Andrew was still lingering over breakfast and the paper, but he looked up as Foyle and Devereaux entered.

"No luck, I'm afraid," Foyle said.

"_Dad_," Andrew said reproachfully. "Man does not live by spam alone." Seeing Devereaux behind Foyle, he grinned, and asked cheerfully: "So you found him, then?"

"Yes," Devereaux said, hesitating in the hall. "Sorry to intrude on your Sunday like this."

"I'm used to it," Andrew said, folding the paper and setting it aside. He had, Foyle noted without surprise, demolished several days' worth of the National Loaf. "Dad's been telling me that crime doesn't keep banker's hours since I was old enough to understand what bankers were."

"Constable Devereaux has a case he wants some advice on," Foyle said. "He'll be staying to lunch."

"Jolly good," Andrew said. "Spam all round! Want some tea, Constable?"

"Thank you, Mr Foyle," Devereaux said, taking off his hat.

"Andrew," Andrew said, offering his hand. "_I'm_ not on the force."

"Jack," Devereaux said, taking the offered grip, but glancing at Foyle as he said the name. _Jack. The name his mother called him, not the one Sir Charles chose. _"So what do you do?"

"As little as possible," Foyle said dryly. "_I'll_ put the kettle on, shall I?"

"Thanks Dad, you're a sport," Andrew said. "I'm in advertising - I write the jingles."

"The breakfast that says 'good morning'?" Jack asked, turning his hat in his hand.

"That's not one of mine, but that kind of thing," Andrew said. As Foyle went into the kitchen, he heard Andrew say: " Rack's just behind you."

"Thanks." A pause, no doubt Jack hanging up his hat. Then: "These are nice," he said, and Foyle realised he must have seen the water-colors on the wall. "That's the view from the headland, isn't it?"

"You know Hastings?" Andrew asked. "Yes, that's looking across to the old fishing shacks. Gone now, of course."

"I used to know it," Jack said. "Everything's changed now."

"Yes," Andrew said. "This is my favourite, I think because I can remember Mum painting it. I thought it was taking her an age and kept wanting to _help _to get it done faster." He was silent a moment, and when he spoke again Foyle could hear the smile in his voice. "I don't have all that many memories of her, not that I can really tell apart from the stories Dad tells, but that one is clear as yesterday."

"I'm sorry," Jack said.

"It was a long time ago," Andrew said. "I missed her like fury, of course, at first. Funny, you know, I think I missed her _more_ these past few years. With the war ending, and coming home."

"I know what you mean," Jack said. "My mother … _died_. When I was young."

"And your Dad?"

"Indisposed these days," Jack said, as if it were a private joke.

_Indisposed_. Yes, Foyle supposed Sir Charles Devereaux could be said to be _indisposed_. His KC had persuaded the judge that Caroline's murder had been manslaughter, that Sir Charles had been overcome by emotion in the belief that Caroline had been unfaithful to him. He'd escaped hanging, but Sir Charles was _indisposed_ at His Majesty's Pleasure and would be, hopefully, until he died.

"That's rough," Andrew said with ready sympathy. "I don't know what I'd do without Dad."

"I have a step-mother," Jack said. "Jane. She's very nice."

"Dad shows no sign of giving _me_ one," Andrew said. "No matter how I hint."

Foyle paused in the doorway of the dining room, tea tray in his hands, and raised his voice to say: "You don't show much sign of giving me a daughter-in-law, either."

"Not that it's any of your business," Andrew said, ushering Jack into the dining room.

"Pot," said Foyle. "Kettle."

"Point," Andrew conceded. "Anyway, Sam went and got married and I haven't met anyone a patch on her since. Maybe you and I are two of a kind, Dad - one-woman men."

Involuntarily, Foyle met Jack's gaze. The younger man's eyes were lit with a spark of amusement. He raised an eyebrow, acknowledgement of a shared knowledge - silent recognition of a private family joke.

He returned the gesture. "How do you take your tea?"

"As it comes, thanks." Following Andrew's example, Jack sat down. "Your wife's paintings are lovely."

"She was very talented," Foyle said, pouring. "Here you go. Got plans for today, Andrew?"

"Thought I might take a stroll down to the harbor," Andrew said, accepting his own cup. "And Bill is in town - Bill Woodruff." He explained for Jack: "Went to school with him. He took off travelling after demob and just got back." He sipped his tea. "We might meet up for a pint." He glanced at Jack, and hastily added: "Private party."

"Of course," Jack said.

"You're welcome to join us if you're done picking Dad's brains," Andrew offered.

Jack smiled down at his tea-cup. "Thanks," he said, "but I've got to get back to London. The Met discourages tardiness." He took a swallow of tea. "Actually the Met discourages a lot of things."

"Independent thought?" Foyle said dryly, and Jack gave a quiet chuckle, and nodded. "Who's your sergeant?"

"Probert," Jack said. "Dylan Probert."

Foyle winced. "Still carrying that chip on his shoulder?"

"'The Treachery of the Blue Books' gets a daily airing," Jack said. "But he's not that bad, really. Very good at _procedure_. Does everything by the book. I've learnt a lot."

Foyle heard the unspoken _but _trailing at the end of that sentence. He drained his cup. "We can talk in the garden," he said, standing, "while Andrew washes up the breakfast dishes."

"Why do _I_ also get stuck with the dishes?" Andrew complained good-naturedley, starting to clear them.

"Why do I always get stuck with the cooking?" Foyle countered.

"Because you banned me from the stove," Andrew said. He grinned at Jack. "All that fuss over what was really quite a _small_ fire."

Foyle raised an eyebrow in comment on _that_ interpretation of events, and led the way out into the small garden tucked in the corner made by the kitchen and the fence, shooing Henny Penny off the bench and sitting down.

Jack eyed the hen. "You keep chickens?"

"I keep _a_ chicken," Foyle said.

"I suppose the eggs come in handy." Jack put his hands in his pockets and surveyed the flowerbed, the laundry props stacked neatly against the fence. _Very different from what he's used to_, Foyle thought, remembering the Devereaux estate.

"She doesn't lay," Foyle said. At Jack's raised eyebrow, he explained: "She's … _pensioned off_."

"Well," Jack said judiciously, "I suppose she's a war veteran, of a sort."

"I suppose we all are, of a sort," Foyle said.

Jack walked a little way to the fence - there was only room to walk a little way - and glanced back at the door. "You must be proud of him," him said. "Andrew. Battle of Britain, all that."

"I am," Foyle said.

"It all worked out for the best, I suppose." The younger man glanced at Foyle. "If you and … if things had been _different_, don't suppose there'd _be_ an Andrew."

"Don't suppose there would," Foyle said. "And I'm very glad to have him, but I'm rather less happy about the price. And I'm sorry that you and your mother paid it." He paused. "If I'd had any idea, I would never have allowed her to go back to him."

"You don't know Sir Charles," Jack said. "My mother was right, you know. If she'd left him, he'd have killed her." He smiled wryly. "So there still might have been an Andrew but there wouldn't have been a _me_."

"I'd consider that a great loss," Foyle said.

"For a long time I mightn't have _agreed _with you," Jack said. "I do now, though."

"I'm very glad to hear it," Foyle said. He cleared his throat. "So what about this case?"

"I don't know if you'll be able to help," Jack said. "And I know I should have come earlier than this, not just when I wanted a favour."

Foyle knew very well why Jack Devereaux had not made the trip to Hastings until he had a reason grounded in their common profession. He himself, had their positions been reversed, would have been reluctant to make the journey. Foyle had offered the young man his help the last time they had met in the visiting room of the gaol, but words were only words. Not confident of his reception, Jack had stayed away until he had the protection of an excuse.

"I'm glad to see you," he said, choosing his words with care, "for … whatever reason. I'm pleased … you _thought _of me when you needed help. _But_ you'd be welcome at any other time."

"You said once if there was anything you could do …" Jack said to the fence.

"I meant it," Foyle said.

"Yes, well." The young man glanced at him, then looked away, pinching a dead bloom from the rose bush. Then, Foyle was obscurely glad to see, he looked back. "I wasn't sure."

"That's understandable," Foyle said.

Again, the sliding sideway glance, the business with the rose. "I don't know how to do this," Jack admitted.

"That's understandable too," Foyle said. "Why don't you … just tell me what the problem is? And we can … worry about anything else _later."_

"The _problem,"_Jack said, "is that the _problem _is tied up with the _anything else_."

"And …" Foyle pursed his lips, spoke to the hen investigating his shoes instead of the man opposite him. "If it wasn't?"

"There've been some break-ins," Jack said. He grimaced. "There's been a _lot _of break-ins. Nobody talks about it because of _public morale_, but the Blitz was the opportunity of a lifetime for criminals. And things haven't gotten much better."

"I've heard," Foyle said.

"We're close to strength, with men coming back from the forces, but if we had _twice_ as many men it wouldn't be enough," Jack said. "Black-marketeering, boot-legging, robberies, theft, fights, if we can make an arrest fast we do it and if we can't, there's five more cases where perhaps we _can_." At Foyle's nod of understanding, Jack went on: "So there's not a lot of time for constables to chase down personal _hunches_."

"But you have one." Foyle nudged Henny Penny gently aside from his shoelaces.

"I have one, alright," Jack said a little grimly. "Five robberies in the past six months, shops and residences, all at times when there were a lot of people there." He shrugged. "Five is a drop in the bucket. There's nothing to link them - two shops, three houses, all different, none with any common factors. Sergeant Probert chalks two of them up to the Hoxton Mob and the other three to the Elephant and Castles."

"But you don't," Foyle said, watching him. The young man had lost his diffidence as he set out his case, pacing a little as he talked.

"Both the Hoxtons and the Elephants are struggling to hold on to what they had before the war," Jack said. Foyle didn't ask how he knew: as a young constable himself, he had spent many off-duty hours unobtrusively sipping a pint and listening to the talk around him and he would have bet that week's sugar ration Jack did the same. "Darby Sabini's a spent force and Alf White is still taking hold of _that_ organisation. I'll eat my _hat_ if they're branching out into stick-ups. And they'd never co-operate … and these are being done by the same men. All of them, six men, armed, violent, but not impulsive. _Just_ enough brutality to keep everyone cowed and compliant. In and out, fast and efficient. A driver in a van on the street, not always the same van, any safes blown with explosives."

"Witnesses descriptions confirm they're the same?" Foyle asked.

"The descriptions aren't much use," Jack said. "They wear balaclavas

"Any … _changes _to their methodology?" Foyle asked.

Jack shook his head. "No. Which means they've been practicing somewhere else."

"One of the regional towns?"

"Or Americans," Jack said, and Foyle nodded thoughtfully.

"FBI could help with that," he suggested.

"A constable can't call the FBI on his own authority," Jack said. "And Sergeant Probert doesn't think there's anything in it."

Foyle nodded again. "Feather in your cap if you broke a case like this," he said mildly.

"Might be, but that's not the _point_," Jack said.

"What is the point?" Foyle asked, studying the young man as he paced back and forth between the kitchen wall and the fence.

"One of the places they hit was the townhouse of a Frederick Hayden," Jack said. "Good family, well-connected, dinner party, women in jewels. One of the guests was Hayden _senior_, decorated for his part in the Somme but fairly frail now." He turned. "The old man decided he wasn't going to take being ordered around by a bunch of thugs with guns and got _obstructive_. One of the gang broke his fingers. Each and every one. His daughter started screaming and when she didn't stop when _told _to she was pistol-whipped unconscious." He ran a hand through his hair. "Sooner or later, they're going to kill someone," he said. "They haven't yet, because they haven't needed to. But all it'll take is one returned serviceman who thinks it makes him a hero, one Bobby walking past as they come out with their haul, and they'll need to, and they will. And … if they're this good at stick-ups, what happens when they decide to branch out? Mr Foyle, these men, they'll make mincemeat of what's left of the organised mobs and sweep straight over the small-time remnants."

Foyle raised his eyebrows. "Six men?"

"Six ruthless, well-equipped, organised, _competent_ men," Jack said.

"And … where d'you think they got the equipment?" Foyle asked.

"Good question," Jack said. "And where are they getting the vans?"

"And the information on their targets," Foyle added. "You … _sure_ there's no link between them?"

"No common staff, deliveries, suppliers, or services."

"Got a copy of the file?"

Jack reached into his jacket and produced a buff envelope. "It's not entirely complete," he said apologetically. "I had to summarise the witness statements - there are more than ninety of them."

Foyle took the envelope. "I'll look it over. Let you know what I think." He paused. "I can reach you at Bow Street?"

"I haven't got the phone on," Jack said, "so that would be best." He paused. "I appreciate this, Mr Foyle."

"I'll be in touch," Foyle promised, tucking the envelope into his pocket. "Now, how about lunch?"

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A/N: the 'new book on Japan' might very well have been 'The Chrysanthemum and the Sword' by Ruth Benedict, a flawed but hugely influential anthropological work published in 1946.

Publicans often got around licencing laws by keeping their doors locked, opening them to customers who knocked, and letting them drink on tab so they could argue they were neither open nor selling alcohol outside legal hours, but instead hosting a 'private party'.

'The treachery of the blue books' is a reference to a 19th century parliamentary report into education in Wales.

There was a spike in organised and disorganised crime during the war and post-war years in London, and in the immediate post-war years there was considerable instability in the organised crime underworld due in part to the internment during the war of several powerful figures as 'enemy aliens' leading to the fragmentation of their organisations.


	2. Above The Neglected Door

A/N: I will be moving this story to the cross-over section now we have a Bletchley Park category, so if you wish to keep reading without needing to click that little twisted arrow up on the right, you might want to 'follow'.

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7 October 1946

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Foyle dropped his son off at the RAF club on Piccadilly, and, after a short battle with the London traffic, now so much worse than before the war by the damage from the Blitz which was only slowly beginning to be repaired, arrived at New Scotland Yard.

He had no official status to rely on, nor did the cloak of Mi5's shadowy authority extend to cover him any more. Hilda Pierce would hardly be inclined to do him any favours, even if he were inclined to ask. A life-long career on the force, however, had left Foyle with other resources to draw on, and it was to one of these he was now bound.

Ray Salisbury's office was still where it had been the last time Foyle had had reason to call on the Met, although his hairline had moved somewhat further north. As always, Salisbury was glad for any opportunity to take a break from the endless paperwork being a Deputy Assistant Commissioner involved. Foyle accepted the offer of a cup of tea and indulged the other man's fondness for talk of the days when they had been young Detective Sergeants together.

"So what can I do for you, Christopher?" Salisbury asked at last. "Thinking of coming back? Want me to put in a good work with the Commissioner?"

"Good god, no," Foyle said quickly, and Salisbury laughed. "No, I'm quite happy as things stand. Finally have time to finish my book." He paused. "Why I'm here, actually, few details I'm trying to tie down."

"Oh, yes?" Salisbury wrinkled his nose. "Hastings Station turned uncooperative?"

"Not at all," Foyle hastened to assure him. "No, it's … I'm thinking of adding an epilogue about the end of the war. Challenges of the peace, and so on."

Salisbury nodded. "They're certainly challenging, uh ... challenges."

"Ye-es," Foyle agreed. "Bu-ut … possibly different challenges in Hastings to London? I'm sure there'll be a lot written about the Met in the future. I'd like to be able to put Hastings and the south coast in … _context. _As it were." He studied the inside of his empty teacup. "Wondering if you could give me a look at your reports. Get a feel for what's going on up here."

Salisbury frowned. "We're not exactly overwhelmed with manpower these days, Christopher."

"Oh, I know," Foyle said quickly. _I counted on it_. "Wouldn't expect anyone to do the _legwork_. But a few hours in the file room …"

It was against all sorts of regulations, but then, Ray Salisbury had always had a healthy disregard for rules. Within fifteen minutes Foyle was in the dusty file room in the basement of New Scotland Yard, picking his way between towering shelves of yellowing folders.

The filing system was, in Foyle's opinion, a disgrace. _Sergeant Brooke would have the heads of any constable this careless with case files_. Not to mention that any storage system which put files in the same room as the furnace left everything covered with a fine layer of coal dust. Nonetheless, after several hours of searching, he managed to locate eighteen files on armed robberies committed _outside_ Bow Street's area of responsibility in the previous six months. Four he dismissed almost immediately, committed by too many or too few suspects. Three more warranted further study, but after reading the files, he concluded the _modus operandi _had too many differences.

Eleven matched.

He took out his notebook and copied dates and locations, adding in the five cases Jack Devereaux had brought to him. _March 18, March 27, April 9, April 18, April 27 …_ The gaps were not an exact match, but that could be explained by the exigencies of circumstances - the gang timed their crimes to maximize their haul and a few days one way or the other could easily be explained by that. He could make no sense of the geographical distribution, except to note that by spreading their crimes around, they'd avoided concentrated attention.

_Except from Jack._

The cases Jack had brought to him didn't make a pattern, not without the others. _Has he seen these files and not wanted to tell me_? Foyle considered, then discarded, the idea. Jack had wanted his help - he had no reason to hold back information that bolstered his case.

_Something_ had convinced him he had a connected series of crimes on what was extremely tenuous evidence.

What had Jack said? _The problem is that the problem is tied up with the anything else._

Foyle chewed the inside of his cheek. He had only the most tenuous idea of James Devereaux's life over the past fourteen months - Sir Charles's trial and conviction, the young man's somewhat unorthodox decision to apply for employment to the Metropolitan Police, leaving his step-mother Jane to run the family estate and holdings …

_Jack was altogether **too **certain these crimes were connected._

_Hard to see how …_

_Unless he knew._

Foyle made meticulous notes of everything he could imagine to be relevant, and returned the files to their shelves, resisting the urge to do a little re-ordering. _The state of this file room certainly explains why no-one else has come up with this connection._

It didn't explain how _Jack_ had.

Everything Foyle knew about the young man told him that, whatever his link to these crimes, it was co-incidental.

But he could easily imagine circumstances in which a co-incidental link could be enough to destroy a young constable's career.

Foyle detoured to the personnel section on his way out of the file room and located an address for Constable Jack Devereaux. _Soho_. Fifteen minutes brisk walk from Bow Street. Unless it had changed drastically during the war years, it wasn't the type of neighborhood most young constables would choose - _unless they had ambitions in the direction of detective work, when an acquaintance with the less savory elements of their patch could prove very valuable indeed._

Leaving Scotland Yard, Foyle drove across town and spent the afternoon visiting Samantha Wainwright. Although her employment had not been terminated when he himself had returned to Hastings in the wake of the Strasser matter, she had handed in her notice shortly afterward, telling him she had _jumped before being pushed_, and had not yet found another job. Foyle found it hard to believe she was content as a housewife in Peckham, occupying her active mind with making the meat last a week and choosing the best brand of laundry powder, but her air of happiness and contentment was undeniable.

They talked of mutual friends in Hastings and old times for a while, and then Sam set down her teacup and fixed him with a shrewd gaze. "And are you going to tell me why you've come up to London? Not Mi5 again?"

Foyle studied the inside of his own cup. "Isn't visiting old friends sufficient reason?"

"Your cuffs are dirty," Sam said, and Foyle glanced down to see that she was right: the dusty files had left their mark on his sleeves. "Which means you've been up to something this morning before you came here. So what was it?"

He smiled. "You're becoming quite the detective, Sam. But nothing exciting, I'm afraid, reading some files."

She frowned. "Police or security?"

"Police," Foyle said. "I'm … looking over some cases for a colleague. As a favor."

"Can I help?" she asked promptly.

"We-ell, not just at the moment," Foyle said. "It's just looking at records for now."

"But you will tell me if I can help?" Sam persisted.

"Of course," he assured her.

"Good," Sam said firmly. "So?"

"So-o …?"

"So, tell me all about it, then," Sam said. "So I'll be up to speed when you _do_ need my help."

Editing the details somewhat to spare her sensibilities, Foyle gave her an outline of the cases, and - without mentioning Jack Devereaux by name - the young constable's conviction that they were connected.

"That is jolly odd," Sam said when he had finished. "Are you _sure_?"

Foyle raised an eyebrow. "Sure about …?"

"That they used a GPO van as the getaway car on that third job."

"The witnesses were confident, yes," Foyle said.

"Well, that's jolly odd." Sam poured more tea for them both. "Those are Morris Z-types and it's certainly not what _I'd_ choose for a speedy getaway. Steers like a cow, corners like a drunk and can be outpaced by a maiden aunt on foot."

Foyle frowned. "They had another reason to choose it, then?"

"Maybe one of them is a postman," Sam suggested.

"It's a place to start, certainly," Foyle agreed.

She beamed. "There you are, sir. I'm useful already!"

"Always useful, Sam," Foyle assured her. "Mmm, I might have some driving around to do tomorrow. Fancy coping with the traffic for me?"

"Absolutely!"

With the agreement he'd pick her up tomorrow first thing, Foyle took his leave before Adam got home. The young MP had never been anything but welcoming to him, but Foyle had picked up from one or two remarks by Sam that Adam held _him_, Foyle, responsible for Sam's occasional tendencies to step outside the lines that defined the role of 'wife of Member of Parliament'.

_Funny how little he knows her_, Foyle thought as he navigated the early evening traffic back toward central London, _to think she needs any encouragement to bolt off on some daft scheme. _

He was smiling as he parked the car near the hotel he'd booked. Checking in was a more tedious process these days, but in the end it was only fifteen minutes later that he was back on the pavement, luggage safely in his room, strolling toward Soho.

It was soon apparent that Soho had _not_ changed during the war, save for the addition of bomb damage. Foyle had politely refused at least a dozen offers of temporary companionship by the time he reached the street he'd seen on Jack's personnel file. The address was a narrow block of flats crammed between what appeared to be a nightclub and another just like it. Foyle found a vantage point and counted windows: the one which he judged to be Jack's was lit.

He chewed his lip and considered his next move. He could cross the street, go in, and set out what he'd learned and what he'd deduced about the crimes and Jack's knowledge of them.

_If he was likely to make a clean breast of it_, Foyle thought, _he would have done so already_.

He needed to _know_, in order to know how to protect the young man.

A husky voice interrupted his thoughts. "Fancy a French lesson, handsome?"

Foyle turned, automatically lifting his hat politely. "No, thank you."

The woman who'd spoken was taller than he was. Foyle noted the size of her hands and feet, the cheap fur stole wrapped around her throat and concealing the Adam's apple, the thickness of the makeup over cheeks and chin. She shrugged. "I have a sister who's _all_ sister, if you'd prefer." When Foyle shook his head, she went on: "Then do you mind shuffling along, darling? There's a lad over there eying me, and he'd not likely to come over while you're stood here on my patch."

"You work here regularly?" Foyle asked.

She squared her shoulders. "Yes I do, and if you've a girl you're planning on moving in, think on. I'm not for shifting."

"I've no intention of trying," Foyle assured her. "Just wondering if you might have seen a young man, lives in the block opposite." He described Jack without giving a name.

"You the fuzz, then?" At his raised eyebrow, she elaborated: "Police force, darling. You a copper?"

She was poised to run. "No, not at all," Foyle said quickly. "Entirely a private inquiry."

"Aha, a gumshoe. Investigating our young Constable Toff." She took a cigarette out of her purse and lit it, then blew the smoke deliberately in his face. "Can't help you, darling."

"But you know him?" Foyle asked.

"Not as well as I'd _like_ to," she drawled, "pretty boy that he is. But yes. Everyone around here knows Constable Toff. And let me save you some time - you won't find anyone _else _who can help you any more than I can."

"Any more than you _will_, perhaps," Foyle suggested.

She gave him a level stare. "We understand each other."

"So he's well liked?" Foyle asked. "Or …?" _Or on the take_, was the other option, although given the Devereaux family wealth that seemed extraordinarily unlikely.

"He's not bent," she said sharply, dropping her half-smoked cigarette and grinding it out with her toe. "He's _decent_. Get a kitten out of a tree for a crying kid, if there were any kittens or kids around here. Or trees. Never nicked anyone didn't have it coming." She studied her painted nails, and then seemed to come to a decision. "I got robbed and rolled a while back." She shrugged. "Wasn't the first time, won't be the last. You can _imagine_, darling, I wasn't exactly _wild_ about the idea of making a complaint to the police, but the hospital did it while I was still out cold. I come round, there's Constable Toff by the bedside, and I'm expecting - well, being what _I_ am isn't exactly viewed with _approval_ by the law. But instead of arresting me, he takes my statement, and then asks if I have a room-mate or a friend who can bring some clothes more suitable for _day wear_ to the hospital for me. _So_." She leaned toward him, lowering her voice menacingly. "If you're here with some idea of making life difficult for him, you can think on."

"That's not my intention at all," Foyle said.

She studied him, eyes narrowed. "We'll see. Right now, you're making life difficult for _me_. Push off up the road a ways and let a girl earn a living, will you?"

"Of course," Foyle said. He raised his hat again, and moved along the street.

As he did so, he saw Jack leave the front door of his apartment block, out of uniform.

Unobtrusively, Foyle followed, as Jack sauntered down the street, pausing to greet a few of the denizens by name and engage one in what looked like an earnest conversation.

His memory of the day's reading provided him with the address of Jack's destination while they were still a block short of it. Foyle paused on the pavement as Jack pushed open a door with the superscript _Minim._

_Minim_, the third target of the gang Jack was so determined to catch.

Foyle settled his hat more firmly on his head, and followed Jack inside.

.

.

.

* * *

A/N:

The effect of basement storage on police files is based on my own experience as a researcher: coal dust is less damaging to records than mold but _far_ more persistent on the clothes.

Soho in the period was the centre of both the emerging trend of jazz music (although the famous Club Eleven did not open until 1948) and the age-old trend of sex work. Prior to the introduction of the _Street Offences Act_ in 1959, sex workers packed the streets and alleys of Soho or operated from 'walk-ups', rooms which advertised their purpose with postcards pinned to the door advertising 'French Lessons' or 'Large Chest for sale' or other similar enticements.

"The fuzz" as a slang for police originates in the US in the 1920s. 'Gumshoe' for detective originated in the 19th century.

"Minim" is the British name for a half-note - the name of the bar is a reference to New York's famous jazz club, "The Half Note"


	3. What Load Of Dice

YMMDJ DOYOR VJACL IATLS IERWM IBVDP SKZWX CVVEL PAQNQ SKUGD GJSPD TWFOX JL

7 October 1946

* * *

The _Minim _was a far more classy establishment that Foyle would have expected from his knowledge of Soho. A long, low, dimly lit room was dotted with chairs clustered around small tables, eclectic in style but none which would have been out of place in a gentleman's club. Thick carpeting and heavy wallpaper muffled conversation to a low murmur. At the far end of the room, one corner held a well-stocked, mahogany bar, bottles glinting in the lamplight; in the other, a small stage barely big enough to hold the grand piano crammed onto it was currently occupied by a solo saxophonist.

The club was busy for a weeknight, and it took Foyle a moment to pick out Jack in one of the chairs close to the stage. He considered finding somewhere he could watch the young man and see who he was here to meet. _But there is a point where reasonable delicacy begins to look like distrust. _

Instead, he went to the bar and ordered a malt, taking his time to give Jack the opportunity to see him. When he turned, glass in hand, the younger man was looking directly at him, expression wry, and motioned to the chair beside him with an economical tilt of his head.

Foyle joined him. Settling in the chair, he raised his glass slightly. "Cheers."

Jack returned the gesture. "I'd say _what a coincidence_," he said with faintly mocking note in his voice, "but it isn't, is it?"

"No," Foyle said. "Any more than it's … a coincidence that one of those robberies was here. This your local?"

Jack laughed soundlessly. "Bit rich for a constable's salary," he said. "I've no desire to have my boss thinking I'm on the take, or asking too many questions about my _means._ No. I play piano here, some nights."

Foyle sipped his drink. "Were you playing the night of the robbery?"

"No. I was on lates, that week." Jack tipped his glass, watching the ice float from one side to the other. "A … _friend _was." He set the glass down untouched. "Is that relevant?"

Foyle pursed his lips. "In explaining why you worked a case so hard on so little evidence, yes."

"Oh, I see." Jack smiled, not looking at Foyle. "You wondered if I was _involved_."

"No," Foyle said. "I wondered if someone you knew might be. If that was the _anything else_ you weren't comfortable telling me yesterday." He watched Jack over the rim of his glass. "If that was why you needed my help."

"No," Jack said, but he still didn't look at Foyle. "Sorry to _disappoint_."

"I wouldn't describe myself as _disappointed_," Foyle said mildly. He paused. "I met one of your admirers on the way here tonight." Jack did look at him then, one eyebrow up. "Afraid I didn't get her name. Tall woman, French teacher, across the road from your building?"

"Miss Charlene," Jack said. "She's not … _actually _…" His face held the same expression Foyle was sure his own had worn once or twice, as a young constable discussing cases with _his_ father. _How do I explain __**this**__ to the poor old man?_

"I did rather gather her skills lay elsewhere than _linguistics_," Foyle said dryly, and realized that he was giving Jack the same look he'd been on the receiving end of, decades before. _Being old is by __**definition **__not born yesterday, lad._

"That's not the _anything else_, either," Jack said. "In case you're wondering."

"I wasn't," Foyle said mildly. "I doubt you'd be foolish enough to choose a career in the police if it was."

Jack laughed again, but this time without the mockery. "No," he said. "Although I did spend one uncomfortable night in a … _dress _on a street corner when one of the women police officers came down with 'flu the day of a stakeout."

Foyle smiled. "I'm sure you make a lovely girl," he said.

"That's not what Miss _Charlene_ thought," Jack said. The corner of his mouth lifted. "I forgot to shave. Apparently it's an important detail." He picked up his glass, sipped. "Are you going to tell me a good police officer would arrest her?"

"No," Foyle said. "I'm not going to tell you that."

Jack glanced at him, and then away, with the quirk of his mouth that Foyle was beginning to learn meant the younger man was filing away new information. _He knows me as little as I know him_, Foyle thought, with a sense of sadness for all the wasted years, the years that would have let them understand each other as well as he and Andrew did. _Or at least_, he thought, **_misunderstand_**_ each other as well as Andrew and I occasionally do. _

He thought of the two young men together at the dining room table, one so open, one so guarded, and yet, in small ways perhaps only _he_ would notice, so much alike - something about the jaw, the temples.

Foyle frowned at his glass, and cleared his throat. "I'd like to tell Andrew. About …"

"About _me_," Jack said.

"I realize you might not consider it his _business_," Foyle said. "But … it's unfair, now he's met you."

"And _what _are you going to tell him?" Jack asked.

"Exactly what I told _you_," Foyle said. "Have you … _considered_ pursuing it?" He didn't know Sir Charles's blood-type, or Caroline's for that matter, but there was a chance a test would provide a conclusive result.

Jack smiled. "During Sir Charles's trial I thought of not much else," he said. "But there are … legal complications." He shrugged. "I don't much care myself but Jane doesn't deserve to be turned out by some second cousin. And …" He looked at Foyle, looked away. "What if I get the wrong answer?"

"I'll take that as a compliment," Foyle said. He cleared his throat again, and drained his glass.

"You should," Jack told him. "And you should tell Andrew … if he can be ... _discreet_."

"He managed to keep his trap shut about his war work," Foyle said. "I'll make sure he understands the complications."

Jack nodded, and then glanced at something behind Foyle's chair. "I'll have to ask you to excuse me. The manager is on the way to tell me my set is due to start." He stood. "I'll have them send you another drink, if you'd care to stay."

"I would," Foyle said, meaning it. "Thank you."

Jack made his way toward the stage, but paused as he was intercepted by a slender negress, wearing a yellow dress studded with sequins that had to predate rationing, her hair lacquered into a braided ebony crown. "I thought you'd lost track of time, Mr Devereaux," she said, with only the faintest trace of an American accent.

"Never, Miss Harper," Jack said. "Would you have another drink sent to my friend?"

Their words were formal, but Foyle noted that the glances they exchanged were anything but, noted too that as they parted ways their hands met, fingers briefly intertwining.

Jack stepped onto the stage, sat down at the piano and began to play, a familiar war-time melody that quickly wandered off into the thickets of improvisation. Miss Harper moved to the bar and out of Foyle's line of sight, but a moment later she was at his table, carrying a tray with a single glass, bearing as royal as if she were a queen carrying the scepter of her office.

He rose courteously. "Miss … Harper?"

"Please, sit down," she said.

He did, and she set the glass on the table with a hand that trembled slightly - a tremor that made the diamond on her ring finger shiver in the lamplight.

_The 'anything else'_, Foyle thought. He imagined Sir Charles's response to the news his heir planned to marry the manager of a bar, not only _not titled_ but also _not white_.

_No wonder he's afraid to tell me_. "Will you join me?" he asked Miss Harper politely.

Miss Harper shot one quick glance toward the stage, and then nodded. "Thank you." She glanced toward the bar, signaled with one finger, and then seated herself in the chair Jack had vacated, as demure and upright as a debutante.

"My name is Foyle," he said.

"I thought it must be," she said. "Mr Devereaux has spoken of you." She added hastily: "In the most complimentary terms, of course."

Foyle picked up his glass. "Have you known him long?"

"Almost a year," she said. "I sing, a little. He used to come to listen, and we got to talking one evening."

_I'll bet he did_, Foyle thought. The woman was exquisite. "Do you sing here?"

"From time to time," she said. "Now I manage _Minim_ there's less leisure for music." Another quick glance to the stage, and Foyle had the conviction he knew on whose wealthy behalf she managed the bar.

"That's a very nice ring," he said mildly.

Miss Harper looked reflexively at her left hand, not the right one on which she wore that diamond, and then back at him. If she was blushing, her complexion didn't permit it to show, but Foyle thought perhaps she was. "Thank you," she said evenly.

"A gift, I think, from Mr Devereaux?"

She hesitated, then finally nodded. "Yes." A waiter brought her drink, a martini, and she took a long swallow. "Mr Foyle, Mr Devereaux … he values your opinion." She set the glass down precisely, folded her hands on her knees, and looked straight at him. "I understand you may very well _object_ to me, to …"

"To your being the future Mrs Devereaux?" Foyle asked.

"Yes," Miss Harper said with dignity.

Foyle raised his eyebrows. "I'm not in a position to object to Jack's matrimonial plans."

"You are in a position to make him very unhappy, however," Miss Harper said. "Please don't do that, whatever your opinion of me, of my … my _heritage."_

"Do you love him?" Foyle asked.

"Yes." It was said with absolute conviction and, Foyle judged, absolute truth.

"We-ell, then, I can't see what grounds I'd have to object," Foyle said. "As to my opinion of _you _… very beautiful, very brave, _clearly_ a good head for business if this is an average Monday night … can't _really _see how Jack could do better." He picked up his glass, and raised it slightly. "Your health and happiness."

The piano had stopped. Foyle looked up to see Jack returning, his face wearing the sardonic expression with which, Foyle had learned in the gaol interview room, he habitually disguised anxiety, or pain, or fear. The young man stopped behind Miss Harper's chair, and rested his hand on her shoulder. The look he gave her was full of tenderness; the look he turned on Foyle was full of challenge.

"My congratulations to you both," Foyle said quietly and sincerely, and saw the challenge melt to relief.

"Shall I order us some champagne?" Miss Harper asked, covering Jack's hand with her own.

"Better not," Foyle said judiciously. "At least … not until you've taken me through your witness statement for the robbery here last June."

"I didn't give a statement," she said, surprised.

"But you _were_ here, weren't you?" Foyle said, with a glance at Jack. "And the police might have overlooked you as a witness …" _Overlooked_ was as polite a way as he could phrase it, although he was quite sure all three of them knew it had been casual racism that had seen the officers dismiss a woman of her color as having the wit to make any useful observations. "But you saw something, or heard something, that you told Jack. And if I'm going to help, I need to know what it was."

.

.

.

* * *

A/N: "Negro" and "Negress" were still considered to be neutral terms in this period, while 'colored' and 'black' were considered offensive.


	4. Spray Of Malice

BXUZQ STPWM BEDKC UFNES FQACI XVMIM KCJYL JILZS URJEG W

8 October 1946

* * *

The conversation had to wait until Miss Harper had finished work, which was not until well after midnight, although Foyle noted the _Minim _scrupulously observed the licensing laws. He wondered if it was in deference to his presence, or regular practice. The customers seemed resigned to it, which indicated the latter, which in turn suggested to Foyle that his speculation on the owner of the bar was correct. _Jack's career might survive the revelation that his family came over with William the Conquerer and that he moonlights as a dilettante bar-owner_, he thought, _but it wouldn't survive being done for selling alcohol after hours._

Finally the last customer left, and Miss Harper locked the door behind the departing staff, and came back to join Foyle and Jack.

"Do you have far to walk home?" Foyle asked.

She smiled. "About twenty feet," she said. "I have a little flat upstairs."

"I see," Foyle said. "So your home was robbed as well as your business, in a way. That must have been … unsettling."

The smile vanished, and Miss Harper reached automatically for Jack's hand. "It wasn't pleasant," she said.

Her account was straight-forward - a busy Friday night, a cashed-up crowd slumming it in Soho's newest jazz venue, attracted by the booking of a famous American _chanteuse_. Five men - Foyle knew from the other witness statements that one always stayed with the getaway vehicle - who'd cowed the patrons with their speed and willingness to hurt anyone who hesitated to obey their commands.

"We have a safe behind the bar," Miss Harper said. "To avoid keeping too much money in the till on busy nights. They blew it open with some sort of explosive."

"Comp B," Jack said. "So they knew beforehand it was there."

"They were prepared for the eventuality, at least," Foyle said. He pursed his lips. "Wouldn't be too uncommon a thing for a bar to have, I'd think." _And one of them, at least, has a military contact somewhere, even if it's at several removes. _"Were all five of them armed?"

"Yes," Miss Harper said. "Pistols. The leader fired into the ceiling when they came in to get everyone's attention." She pointed. "You can still see where the hole was repaired. He wasn't shooting blanks." She went on to describe the way two of the men had stood guard while one blew the safe and the other two collected watches, wallets, and jewellery from the patrons and staff. "I looked at the clock when they came in, and again when they went out. It took seven minutes."

"It takes eight minutes to drive from Bow Street Station at that time of night," Jack said. "Although they were still taking a risk - some of our cars are equipped with radios now."

Foyle nodded, and took Miss Harper through descriptions of the men - such as she could provide, given they'd been wearing balaclavas - and their voices. Only three had spoken aloud, all English, she was sure, two Londoners and one 'more fancy'. "Like Jack," she said. "But not as much."

"And what was it you told Jack?" Foyle asked at last, once he was sure he had all the information she could recall.

She looked down at her hand, still clasped in Jack's. "One of them … when he was taking my ring and my necklace. He said to the other one who was collecting their - their _haul_ - that … he'd had his doubts about coming here, but now it looked like they could take a 'pretty nigrah' home as well, which beat the options at toff's garden parties."

Foyle glanced at Jack, whose jaw was set. "And then?"

"Then the leader told him to be quiet, and not to be a fool, and shortly after that they left."

"So I looked to see if any garden parties had been robbed by the same sort of group," Jack said.

"Ye-es," Foyle said, understanding exactly what had motivated the younger man. "And … _found _one. Miss Harper, are you sure that's exactly what he said? 'Nigrah'?"

She nodded. "Yes. Why?"

"It's not very common here," Foyle said. "An Englishman who uses that term would have picked it up from America, or Americans."

"The country's been awash with Yanks," Jack said.

"It has," Foyle said. "Still, it's something." He took out his notebook. "I found eleven more, by the way. They're moving around the city, making it less obvious."

Jack studied the list of dates and places. "Probert will have to pay attention now," he said.

"You might want to hold off on telling him," Foyle suggested, "until you have a reason to have information gained from the file room of Scotland Yard."

"I'm on lates again next week," Jack said. "I can go around to these stations and ask if they have any cases matching mine. Since they do …" He shrugged.

"That's worth a try," Foyle said, "although in my experience, desk sergeants can be very territorial."

"Then what?" Jack asked.

"I have a few days before I need to be back in Hastings," Foyle said, although the truth was, as long as his next-door neighbour kept throwing a few handfuls of chicken meal over the fence each day, he didn't _need_ to be back in Hastings at all. "I could look into this a little more, see if I can turn up anything … more _concrete_. Something the brass would pay attention to." He studied Jack sidelong. "Of course, you might not be involved in any subsequent operation."

"That doesn't matter," Jack said immediately. "I don't need the collar, Mr Foyle."

"It would help your career," Foyle pointed out, and Jack smiled.

"I quite like being a constable," he said. "There's worse things in life." _Being a prisoner of war, being an undercover agent in the heart of the Nazi army, watching your mother be murdered … _yes, Jack Devereaux spoke from experience when he said there were _worse things in life_ than walking a beat. "And if there's a promotion in my future, it'll get here sooner or later. I just want them _stopped."_

Foyle nodded. "I'll see what I can find out," he said. "Some indication of how they're choosing targets, some other link between the crimes." He rose to his feet and picked up his hat. "Thank you for your time, Miss Harper. It was a very great pleasure to meet you. I look forward to renewing the acquaintance."

She rose as well. "I'll let you out."

"Do you have far to go?" Jack asked. "I can -"

Foyle raised his eyebrows. "Not _quite_ in my dotage yet, thanks." He paused on the way to the door, and turned back. "Mind if I discuss this with a friend? Who might be able to help?"

"Police?" Jack asked.

"Housewife," Foyle said. He thought about adding that she'd been a police driver, during the war, that she'd have joined the Force herself if not for the glut of married former police women _during_ the war and returning soldiers seeking their jobs back _after_ it. _But …_

But he wanted to see what Jack would say, he realized, recognizing in that moment that Jack was not the only one using this tentative re-acquaintance to test and probe and learn.

What Jack did was shrug. "Go ahead," he said. "If you think she can help."

.

.

.

* * *

A/N: Composition B was a common explosive used in WWII in a variety of applications.


	5. The Breaking Of Bread

EDYYA QDKSV KAYII ALAGS E

8 October 1946

* * *

"How many more of these, sir?" Sam asked, checking the street with care before pulling out.

"Four," Foyle said, marking the map he held with the location of the twelfth crime scene they'd visited.

"Jolly good," she said with an air of resignation.

"I can drop you home and find the rest myself," he offered.

"Oh, no sir!" Sam said quickly. "I want to help. It's just - I'm not awfully sure _how_ I'm helping, just at the moment."

_And we've missed lunch_, Foyle thought with private amusement. "We-ell …" he said, "We're trying to see how all these different places are connected. How they were chosen by the robbers."

"Yes, sir," Sam said, making a left turn. "I followed that far. But they're _not_ connected, as far as I can see. Seven houses, three shops, two bars, all over the place."

"We needed to go right back there," Foyle pointed out.

"No, sir, if we'd gone right we would have come out on Grosvenor and that takes _forever_. They dug up the street to get at a UXB and haven't put it back yet."

"Ri-ight," Foyle said. He chewed the inside of his cheek. "A lot of roads like that, these days."

"Yes, sir," Sam said. "Which means, doesn't it, that this _gang _must plan very carefully. Or they'd have found their getaway route a traffic jam by now."

"Mmm," Foyle said, looking at the map. "And if they're taking road closures into account, that's a limit on their potential targets. Just up here, I think."

Sam pulled over, and Foyle got out. It was one more townhouse, remarkable for the wealth it betrayed but not in any way distinguished from its neighbors. And yet, Foyle knew, it _must_ be. _Yes, the owners were having a dinner party_, he thought_, and yes, their guests were equally wealthy, but the same could be said for any of the other houses in the square on other evenings._

_They chose __**this**_ _one. _

None of Jack's first cases had been linked by workmen, or servants, or suppliers … _but surely there must be __**some**_ _common thread inside the houses, the bars, the shops. _

He turned back to the car. "Sam," he said, "how are we going to get into the house?"

Her brow furrowed in thought and she stared straight ahead through the windscreen for a moment. "Who is who lives here again?"

Foyle checked his notes. "Cholmondeley-Browne."

"Titled?"

"Yes," Foyle said.

"Right," Sam said, turned to him with a smug smile. "Leave it to me, sir."

Climbing out of the car, she set off up the front walk at a brisk pace, Foyle following. Sam knocked briskly on the door.

It was opened by, _of course_, a butler. He eyed Sam's ration-book clothing with distaste and Foyle's pre-war suit with disdain. "Yes?"

"Hello," Sam said cheerfully. "Is Lady Browne at home?" The butler's mouth opened to issue what would almost certainly be a negative, and Sam rushed on: "She asked me to call when we met at the Children of Europe Fund garden party last week. Mrs Samantha Wainwright."

The butler's eyebrows rose. He presented her with a silver salver. "Your card."

"I'm afraid I gave all mine to the paper salvage drive last month," Sam said blithely. "We must all _muck in_, mustn't we?"

The salver disappeared; the eyebrows rose, if possible, higher. "If you would care to wait, I will ascertain if Lady Browne is in."

He attempted to shut the door, but Sam's foot was in the way. "Jolly good," she said blithely, and bounced past him into the foyer.

Foyle tipped his hat to the butler, and followed.

It was clear from the expanse of marble on which they stood, the gleaming mahogany of the staircase that led up-stairs, and the exquisite quality of the furnishings that here was a family whose fortunes had not been materially diminished by the fortunes of war. Foyle identified a small sculpture and a painting that, individually, were worth a fortune. _The thieves missed them … or didn't think the difficulty of fencing art was worth the trouble._

Foyle suspected the former, and filed that away with the other facts he was beginning to assemble about the men he sought.

A noise from the staircase made him turn. A tall, heavily built girl whose spectacles gave her rather a rabbit-in-the-headlights air was frozen halfway down. She was a member of the family: her use of that staircase would have told him that, if the quality of cloth in her (rather ill-fitting) clothes had not.

Foyle raised his hat to her as she retreated up a step and she stopped again, and then with a weak smile started downward once more.

"Hello," she said, offering her hand. On the same level, she was still taller than Foyle, although she hunched her shoulders as if to seemed smaller.

The butler, who had returned with such speed that Lady Browne's dismissal must have been all-but-instant, cleared his throat. "I regret," he said, "Lady Browne is not at home." He eyed the girl's outstretched hand with disapproval. _About to shake hands with a suspected member of the lower classes_, Foyle thought, _and one who whom she hasn't been introduced, either. Daresay her mother will hear about __**that**_. As a younger man, the slight from a servant of the aristocracy would have angered him, but it had been a long time since Foyle had found the social dance of the great and the good anything but amusing and, when it interfered with an investigation, irritating.

Deliberately, he took the offered hand. "My name is Foyle," he said. "And may I introduce Mrs Samantha Wainwright, wife of Adam Wainwright, Member of Parliament?" Without looking at the butler, he knew the man was now in the worst dilemma of his week: Sam was no longer 'some person with a charity' but, possibly, an individual of some social consequence. _Depends on whether he knows Adam's a __**Labour**_ _MP or if he's thrown by her accent._

"I'm most pleased to meet you," the girl said. "Camilla Cholmondeley-Browne. Have you come to call on Mater?"

"Yes, about the Children of Europe Fund," Sam said. "Such a shame she's not in, she was terribly interested in all the good work we're doing."

"I should jolly well think so," Miss Cholmondeley-Browne said. "All those poor little babies, and the war, and everything! It quite makes one want to set sail for the coast of France with a load of milk, or something."

"It certainly does!" Sam said. "I say, I don't suppose _you'd_ be interested in hearing more about what we do? Only I did promise Lady Browne and I'm not sure how much longer we'll be in London. There's so much to do! If you could fill her in, I'd feel ever so much better about breaking my word."

"Rather!" Miss Cholmondeley-Browne said. "Wilson, can you have tea sent in to the drawing room-" The butler cleared his throat. "The morning room?"

"Yes, Miss Camilla," Wilson said, and with a bow, took himself away.

Miss Cholmondeley-Browne ushered them to a well-appointed morning room that could have easily swallowed an entire story of Foyle's house. The drawing room, he guessed, was where Lady Browne was currently awaiting callers to whom she might be at home.

There was a certain amount of necessary small-talk as they took their seats and tea was brought, with cucumber sandwiches not improved by their composition of National Loaf. Sam, Foyle noted, fell on them enthusiastically regardless.

"I _am_ sorry," Miss Cholmondeley-Browne said. "Rationing, you know."

Sam swallowed a substantial mouthful. "We must all do our bit."

"I didn't do much," Miss Cholmondeley-Browne said a little sadly. "I was in school. By the time I took matric it was all over and the only _bit_ I did was eating disappointing biscuits and mock turkey." She sipped her tea. "I wanted to be in the Land Army but Mater wouldn't let me leave school."

"Oh, I was in the Land Army," Sam said blithely. "For a day. Most of the rest of the time I was a police driver."

Miss Cholmondeley-Browne's eyes went very wide. "A police driver?"

"Yes," Sam said, selecting another sandwich. "I drove Mr Foyle. He's a policeman — _was_ a policeman."

"I say, how jolly exciting!" Miss Cholmondeley-Browne said eagerly. "Did you chase 'the crooks' in your car?"

"Sometimes," Sam said. "One of them shot out the windscreen, too. Before he crashed and exploded." She ate the sandwich in two economical bites and swallowed. "I say, Miss Cholmondeley-Browne, can you keep a secret?"

Foyle sensed where she was going and raised an eyebrow. "Mrs Wainwright …"

"It's alright, Mr Foyle, I'm sure Miss Cholmondeley-Browne can be trusted," Sam said. Foyle could tell from the girl's face that Sam had just won her undying loyalty, along with the hero-worship attendant on having being involved in a police chase against gun-toting criminals.

"I can," she said breathlessly. "I'm ever so trustworthy, Mrs Wainwright, truly!"

Sam leaned forward. "We're rather here on _false pretences_," she said confidingly.

Miss Cholmondeley-Browne sat back a little. "False pretences?" she said nervously.

"Yes, We're not from the Children of Europe Fund at all, although goodness knows I've been to enough of their meetings," Sam said. "You see, we're _detectives_."

"You're still with the police?" Miss Cholmondeley-Browne asked uncertainly.

"Not _exactly_," Sam said. "We're more like …"

"Like Sam Spade!" Miss Cholmondeley-Browne said. "Oh, _gosh _how terribly exciting!" She clasped her hands together. "How can I help?"

Sam gave Foyle a smug look, and selected another sandwich.

"I understand you had a robbery here, Miss Cholmondeley-Browne?" Foyle said.

"Yes, it was bally horrid," she said.

"Were you here?" he asked.

"I was upstairs. Mater and Pater had guests for dinner, but I had a bit of a bad head," she said. "The gunshot gave me a start! One expects that sort of thing in the country, of course, but not here."

"What did you do?" Sam asked.

"Pater always says that the best thing for a woman to do in a crisis is to lock her door and stay out of the way," Miss Cholmondeley-Browne said, eyes fixed on her teacup.

"I'm sure he does," Sam said, eyeing the final sandwich. "But what did _you _do, Miss Cholmondeley-Browne?"

"I think," Miss Cholmondeley-Browne said with an air of great daring, "since we're _detecting_, you might call me Camilla." She gave a little nervous laugh. "And, I, well. Went on to the landing and _listened_. I should have called the police, I know, but the telephone is in the hall downstairs and I could hear men shouting and it didn't seem an awfully good idea."

"It was very sensible for you to stay upstairs," Foyle assured her. "Did you hear what they were shouting?"

"I'm afraid not," Camilla said. "Just that they were men, you know, the _tone_. And then I saw one of them come out into the hall and I sort of _shrank back_ so he wouldn't see me and peered through the banister. And then the others came out and one of them seemed like he was coming up the stairs but one of the others said they didn't have time, and they all went out."

"Do you remember exactly what he said?" Foyle asked.

"Oh," Camilla said. "I'm not sure I do. I'm frightfully sorry."

"What did he sound like?"

"He sounded just like a regular chap," Camilla said, looking perplexed by the question.

"So-o … not cockney? Or northern?"

She looked enlightened. "Oh, I see! No, not at all, just ordinary."

Sam took the last sandwich. "What school did he go to?" she asked.

"Plymouth," Camilla said instantly. "Or Stamford."

"Couldn't be Eton?" Foyle asked. "Or Harrow?"

"Oh, gosh, no," Camilla said firmly.

_Fancy, Miss Harper said, but not like Jack_, Foyle thought.

"And then they ran out?"

"Not exactly _ran_," Camilla said. "They were in a hurry, but it was more a very fast walk. Oh, I say, one of them was called Timmy!" She bounced a little in her seat with excitement. "That's what he said. 'Leave it, Timmy, we've haven't time'. Does that help?"

"Certainly does," Foyle said. He finished his tea. "What was the menu for the evening?"

"Tomato juice cocktails, welsh rarebit," Camilla said, "then Beef Wellington with scalloped potatoes and Brussels sprouts, followed by orange sherbert." She added a little defensively: "Sent up from the estate."

"Of course," Foyle said. It was still a breach of the Ministry of Food regulations, but one which he had no doubt was occurring more and more frequently now the war was over and those of means no longer had the motivation of urgent peril to inspire compliance. "How long ahead was the dinner planned?"

"Nearly two weeks," Camilla said. "Sir Francis — Sir Francis Carlyle — had come up to London because his son, Colonel Carlyle, had been demobbed. Mater …" She trailed off awkwardly, blushing miserably.

"The son's unmarried?" Foyle guessed, and Camilla nodded.

_And she pled a headache to avoid the meeting her mother went to such trouble to arrange._

"He's a war hero, of course," Camille said rapidly. "Everyone says he's very handsome."

Foyle made a polite, noncommittal noise. _Nearly two weeks_. Two weeks in which no doubt anyone in the household, or in any of the other households, could have made a chance remark … _Wouldn't even have to be the person they spoke to_, he thought. _Anyone who __**overheard**_ _could have been the way they chose their target._

Somehow, that didn't feel quite right. _A very random way to chose a target for a very carefully planned crime._

They thanked Camilla and took their leave. On the pavement, Sam asked: "Did that help, sir?"

"No-ot … _sure_," Foyle said thoughtfully.

"At least we got something to eat," Sam said cheerfully as she got into the car, ignoring the fact that she herself had consumed more than the lion's share of the sandwiches. "I did feel jolly sorry for Camilla, though. One good thing about the war, I wasn't home to be traipsed round the eligibles. Bally humiliating, like one's a prize heifer for sale."

Foyle got in beside her. "That occurred to me."

Sam turned to look at him. "I say, sir, do you think _she_ arranged it? As a sort of — fit of rebellion?"

"Mmm," Foyle said. He chewed the inside of his cheek. "It's a thought. No-ot sure she's the type but … people can surprise you. But how would she know who to get in touch with them?"

"People know all sorts of people," Sam said.

"No-ot exactly her _set_, are they? The leader's the only one even close, and there's a fairly large gap between a minor public school and Lady Browne's daughter."

"That's true," Sam said. "If she was a little older I'd say she might have met them doing war work. But she didn't do any." She paused. "She could have been lying about that."

"She … _could _have_," _Foyle said, "but we're getting a little far fetched now, don't y' think? Miss Camilla Cholmondeley-Browne as a cold-blooded criminal mastermind?"

"I _suppose _…" Sam said reluctantly. "She does seem rather more the sort to stew and stew and then have a jolly good shout."

"Than the type to have connections in London's criminal underworld?" Foyle said dryly. "Yes."

Sam started the car. "Where to now, sir?"

"Three more places to visit," Foyle said. "We'll be done in time for dinner."

"Jolly good!" Sam said, and pulled out into the traffic.


	6. Baskets Are Gathered Of Loaves

JHHPQ CTBOX BEYOJ DQALN JRCUJ XYOBH VFMEX KEJCB KHRZZ DAU

8 October 1946

* * *

There was not much that could be done with half a cabbage, two carrots, several slices of spam, breadcrumbs and an onion, but Sam had done her best, and both Foyle and Adam expressed appropriate appreciation.

"Not _quite_ Beef Wellington followed by orange sherbet," Sam said cheerfully. "But since I've never had the chance to practice cooking either of _them_, this is probably at _least _as edible." She rose and began to clear the table. "I do miss living somewhere one could bicycle to a stream, though. I often think that if weren't for fish I wouldn't have —"

Her voice faded, and the plates she held dipped toward the floor.

"Sam?" Foyle rose, seeing how pale she had gone, but Adam was on his feet as well, pulling a chair around and helping Sam into it.

"Oh, dear," she said weakly, "stood up too fast. Sorry."

"Take it easy, Sam," Adam said. "I'll get the dishes."

At her nod, he began to collect the dishes, and took them through to the kitchen.

Foyle sat back down, frowning. Adam seemed to him to be insufficiently concerned. _Sam has always been healthy as a horse_. "You alright?" he asked her.

"Tickety boo, sir," she said, managing a smile.

"This happened before?"

"Once or twice," Sam said. "Nothing to worry about."

Foyle frowned harder, rubbing his forehead with one finger. "Seen a doctor?"

"Yes. He said it would pass." She paused, and then said archly: "In a month or two, probably, but _certainly _it won't last longer than seven."

"Than —" Her implication was unmistakable. "_Congratulations_."

She smiled. "Thank you, sir. It — I _would _have told you. It's just — _early_."

"I understand," he assured her. "Of course. And everything's … alright?"

"All on proceeding on schedule and to order," she said cheerfully. "Estimated time of arrival is next May."

"Well, I'm very happy for you, Sam, you and Adam." This last as Adam returned from the kitchen.

"Thank you," Adam said. He put a hand protectively on Sam's shoulder. "Alright, Sam?"

"Yes, perfectly," she said, covering his hand with her own.

"You should rest more," Adam said. He didn't look at Foyle as he said it, but the remark was slightly edged.

"Certainly should," Foyle said. "Would never have asked you, if I'd known."

"I'm perfectly able to _drive,_" Sam said dismissively. "It's all sitting down, after all. Not that I was much help today. All that traipsing around and _none_ of those places have anything in common."

"What are you looking into?" Adam asked, picking up the last of the serving dishes.

Foyle hesitated. It went against the grain to discuss a case with a civilian. Then he remembered that Sam, and he, were both civilians now. _And Adam, after all, is a Member of Parliament_. "Series of armed robberies," he said. "It looks like they were all committed by the same group of men, but there's nothing to link the crimes apart from that."

"That you can see," Adam said from the kitchen, raising his voice to be heard over running water.

"Yes," Foyle said. "That we can see."

"Sorry," Adam said, turning off the tap and coming to lean against the doorframe. "But there'll be a link."

"There _isn't_, Adam," Sam said. "Mr Foyle and I looked at _everything_ today."

"It's impossible there isn't," Adam said. He sat back down at the table and picked up the salt cellar and pepper shaker, then the tiny vase of flower that Sam had decorated the table with, moving them all to in front of him. He reached into his pocket and took out his wallet, then took off his watch and set them both beside the others. "Look," he said, and moved them all, one by one, to random places on the table. "Where's the pattern?"

Sam frowned. "There isn't one," she said.

Foyle pursed his lips. "They're all in arm's length from where you're sitting," he observed, and Adam grinned.

"Exactly," he said. "Except if you just walked in here and the room was empty, that wouldn't be obvious, would it?" He put his watch back on. "There's always a pattern. If you know where it starts you can tell what it is."

"And if you know what it is, you can tell where it starts?" Foyle said.

"Absolutely," Adam said.

"I say, Adam," Sam said, "I don't suppose you'd have time to look at these files?"

Adam hesitated. "I'd have time," he said. "And I'd like to help. But it's not really _me_ you need. I'm more mathematics. _This_—" he indicated the arrangement of salt cellar, pepper and wallet, "isn't what I was good at."

"Who _do_ we need, then?" Sam asked. "Who _was _good at it?"

Adam picked up his wallet and made heavy weather of putting it away. "We all signed the Official Secrets Act."

"Oh, for goodness sake!" Sam said. "So did I, bally _dozens _of times."

"Just a name," Foyle said quietly. "We don't need to know how you might have met him, or what you and he might have done. Just a name."

Adam looked up, then, and smiled. "Not _he_," he said. "You need to talk to Susan Havers. She's … very good at _crosswords_."

"Crosswords?" Sam said, frowning.

"Crosswords, and _other_ sorts of puzzles," Adam said. "If anyone can find your pattern, Susan Havers can."

"Where can we find her?" Foyle asked.

"I don't know, exactly," Adam said. "I know she's from London, or, _near _London, at least. But I don't know where she went after — after we all stood down." He shrugged. "I'm sorry. That's not really very helpful, is it? It's not the most _unusual _name."

"Mmm," Foyle said. "And she likes _crosswords_, you said?"


	7. Precious Secrets

DBRAG CDBSK GGIMN IXAZW HTMGU ZQOHX JED

9 October 1946

* * *

Andrew stopped pacing across the reception area of the _Times_ long enough to ask: "Are you going to tell me what this is about, Dad?"

"Nup," Foyle said.

"Fine." Andrew threw himself down into the chair across from his father. "I take the morning off work, come down to the _Times _office to meet you because you need me to introduce you to Alan Brayley, but by all means, don't tell me _why_."

"Remember all those forms you filled in during the War?" Foyle asked.

"Of _course_, I —" Andrew's eyes went wide. "_Right_. Like that?"

"Like that," Foyle confirmed.

"I thought you were out of all that," Andrew said.

"So did I," Foyle said dryly. "This is rather … _unofficial."_

There was a small silence. "I say, Dad," Andrew said at last. "Do be careful."

"Never anything but," Foyle assured him, and heard the lie the moment it was out of his mouth. He cleared his throat. "We could get lunch, after this? My shout."

Andrew shot him a look that said as clear as words _if that's how you want to play it. _"Sure," he said. "There's a place near my office that does a —"

"Andrew!" A tall, thin young man who looked to Foyle as if he had dressed out of a 'Hollywood Reporter' catalogue came through the door to the inner office. He seized Andrew's hand and pumped it enthusiastically. "Bloody good to see you. It's been, what — two years?"

"Almost," Andrew said. "How have you been, Alan?"

"Alright," Alan said, and grinned. "Better than alright, actually. Remember that girl I used to talk about, Marjorie?"

"Couldn't forget," Andrew said, "you never stopped singing her praises."

"She's Mrs Brayley now," Alan said. "And there's a little Brayley on the way."

"Congratulations," Andrew said warmly. "That's great news." He turned to include Foyle in the conversation. "Alan, this is my Dad." The two men shook hands and exchanged greetings. "We've come with rather an ulterior purpose, I'm afraid."

Alan raised an eyebrow. "I'm a journalist, Andrew. Ulterior purposes are my bread and butter. Come through and tell me about it."

He led them down a corridor, up a flight of stairs and across a wide room crowded with desks, all of which seemed to be occupied by men either hammering on typewriters or shouting into telephones. On the other side of it, a small number of doors bore individual names. Alan opened the one marked 'Brayley' and ushered them into a tiny cubicle.

"Not much, I'm afraid," he said, although with obvious pride, "but it's mine. Now, what can I do for you? And can I print it?"

"No," Foyle said firmly, and the young man's face fell.

"_But_," Andrew said, "when there's something that _can _be printed, you'll be the first phone call. Right, Dad?"

"Of course," Foyle said.

"Good enough," Alan said cheerfully. "So what is it?"

"I was hoping you'd be able to introduce me to … whoever does your _crosswords_," Foyle said, and Alan's eyebrows shot up.

"I say, that's a rather rum request. You're not with the War Office, are you?"

"No-o," Foyle said, raising an eyebrow in turn. "Why?"

"Rather rum rumours," Brayley said. "Something hush-hush about the higher-ups summoning the compiler a few times."

"Mmm," Foyle said. "We-ell, no, not War Office. Quite retired. This is a personal matter."

"A personal matter," Alan said. "With the crossword compiler of the _Times_."

Andrew glanced at his father, then said: "Look, Alan, the truth of it is, the old man's just trying to spare me some embarrassment, but you're too sharp for us. Just … don't laugh _too_ hard, alright?" Alan nodded, and Andrew went on: "The fact is, there's this girl. She used to get the same bus as me. I introduced myself one day, and from then on we used to say hello and chat a bit. I was working up the courage to ask her out and then one day, she just wasn't there. Hasn't been back. I know her name, but I don't have any way to find her. And actually, I'm a bit worried something might have happened."

Alan _was_ smiling at the story, but not maliciously. "She must be quite something if _you_ had to work up courage to ask her out," he observed.

Andrew cleared his throat uncomfortably and glanced involuntarily at Foyle. "She, uh, is."

"You want the _classifieds_, man, not the _crossword,_" Alan said.

"She doesn't read the classifieds," Andrew said. "She doesn't read any of the newspaper, she just does the crossword. Every day, without fail. So what I was _thinking _was if there were clues that solved to something like 'Susan Havers' — that's her name, Susan — 'please call' and my number."

"_Very_ cloak and dagger," Alan said. "You know, old chap, she might just not — I mean, she might have just started taking a different bus."

"I know," Andrew said. "But at least I'd _know_."

Alan studied him for a moment, and then shrugged. "Alright," he said. "I'll see what I can do. I owe you, after all, for all that time you spent listening to me rabbit on about Marjorie."

"You certainly do," Andrew said fervently, and Alan laughed, and picked up his phone.

The crossword compiler, who turned out when he reached Alan's office to be a very short, very rotund elderly gentleman, was quite taken with the romance of the story Andrew had cooked up — he certainly considered it completely understandable that a man would be unable to forget a woman who finished the whole crossword every day, especially when Andrew added the invented detail that Susan Havers did it entirely in ink. Foyle had already arranged with Sam and Adam to use _their _home number, since anyone trying to reach him at his hotel or Andrew at the RAF club would need the name of the person they were calling, and after Andrew wrote down the message they'd worked out, the compiler promised it would appear in two day's time, and hurried away to get to work.

"I think you've made his day," Alan observed. "You will let me know what happens, won't you? We could get a human interest story out of it if you end up marrying this girl."

"Steady on," Andrew said, laughing. "I haven't even asked her out yet and you've got us in a pre-fab with a baby in a cot and another on the way."

"Absolutely," Alan grinned. "Everyone should be so lucky."

With promises to keep in touch, and further promises to give him an exclusive on the hypothetical future wedding of Andrew Foyle and Susan Havers, they took their leave.

"Well done," Foyle said quietly as they made their way back toward reception.

Andrew put his hands in his pockets and said nonchalantly: "Maybe I have a future in Intelligence work."

Foyle stopped dead. "Good god, Andrew, you're not serious, are you?"

His son gave him the same raised eyebrow Foyle occasionally saw in the mirror. "Had _you_ going, didn't I? So clearly I have a natural talent. But no."

"That's a relief," Foyle said, starting down the corridor again. "I don't think it would … _suit_ you."

"Neither do I," Andrew said. "Wish I knew what _did_, though. Maybe I should talk to Alan again, see if he can get me a job on the paper."

"And what's wrong with advertising?" Foyle asked.

"Oh, the money's alright," Andrew said off-handedly. "And the work's not too arduous. But I can't see myself still writing six word slogans for washing powder in thirty years time." He shrugged. "They all take it so seriously, and I just _can't_. What does it bloody matter what sort of shoes a girl buys? She's got feet to put them on, that's the important thing."

They reached the exit, and Foyle spotted the door marked _Classifieds_. A sudden impulse slowed his steps. "I spent the war arresting people for selling tuppence batteries at threepence ha'penny," he said, "which often felt about as relevant as the shoe preferences of the _demi monde_. Hang on a moment, would you? I want to put an advertisement in, and then we'll get lunch."

The clerk at the classifieds desk read Foyle's proposed advertisement, and pointed out that charge was by the letter, and that he could suggest a few ways the gentleman could save himself a little money. Foyle thanked him, but refused, and paid for it to be printed exactly as he'd noted it down, then joined Andrew on the steps outside the office.

"Covering your bases?" Andrew asked.

"Manner of speaking," Foyle said, although he wasn't entirely sure _what _he'd done, or why. "Look, d'you fancy some fresh air? There's a nice little park along here, if it hasn't been bombed, and we might be able to get a sandwich."

"It's a bit parky," Andrew objected.

"Do you good," Foyle said.

Andrew gave him a sidelong look, and sighed. "Alright then, if you want."

On the way to the park, Andrew filled his father in on the long and occasionally painful courtship of Alan Brayley and the fair Marjorie, a story apparently complicated by torturous shyness on both sides and not made easier by the long separation of the war.

"Alan was always scribbling things for the magazine," Andrew said. "Just a rag, really, we used to type up a few copies and they'd go around all the chaps until they were dog-eared. Funny stories, couple of poems, local colour, for morale, you know? Anyway, I talked Alan into a column called 'Letter Home'. I told him to pretend he was writing to Marjorie, but not really — his letters to _her_ were bloody awful, stilted things about the weather. And he wrote these terrific, funny little pieces, making fun of himself as this lovesick fool too scared to speak up. Had the chaps in stitches. I collected as many as I could and when it was all over last year I sent them to her with a note explaining it was Alan who wrote them."

"Seems to have worked," Foyle observed, turning into the park. It was almost empty, which was not surprising since Andrew's observation of the weather had been accurate.

"I'm bloody glad," Andrew said. "It did occur to me afterwards it might have been a mistake, but rather too late." He stopped in the middle of the path. "What's this about, Dad? And don't pretend you don't want to tell me. We're not in the middle of an empty park for our health."

"No," Foyle admitted. He spotted an empty bench. "Let's sit down." When they were both seated, Foyle took off his hat, rubbed his forehead, and replaced it. "Andrew," he said. "Something I need to tell you." He took a deep breath, and started: "During the war … the _first_ war, I was injured, not badly."

He told the story in almost the same words he had used to James Devereaux. _I was young, alone, frightened. There was a volunteer nurse. Her name was Caroline. She was beautiful. Married, but desperately unhappy with the life she was leading, at her happiest when her husband was away. But she chose to pursue that life for the sake of the child she was carrying._

His son listened in silence. "_Your_ child?" he asked at last.

"It seems … _likely_," Foyle said.

"Do you … is he .. Or she? … Christ!" Andrew stood up abruptly and took a step away, running his fingers through his hair and then scrubbing one hand over his face.

"You've met him," Foyle said. "Last Sunday."

Andrew turned. "That constable?"

Foyle nodded. "Yes. Jack Devereaux. _James_ Devereaux, actually, but he goes by Jack."

"Bloody hell, Dad," Andrew said. "Why didn't you ever say anything?"

"It was before you were born," Foyle said. He looked up at his son. "It was before I even met your mother. I told her, before we married, and I never saw, I never spoke to or wrote to Caroline again, or had any letter from her."

"Jack wasn't before I was born, was he?" Andrew said sharply. "He was bloody sitting in our dining room with us drinking tea!"

Foyle winced. "Yes," he acknowledged.

"And you've been seeing him?"

"I wouldn't go _that_ far," Foyle said. "I … respected his mother's wishes. Even after she … _died_. Until last year, when he was in a spot of difficulty. I met him a few times, sorting that out. It involved … _arresting_ Sir Charles for the murder of Caroline. We haven't met since. Until Sunday. Once you'd met, I felt … I owed you the truth."

"Christ!" Andrew flung himself down on the bench again and ran his hands through his hair. "Her husband killed her? Bugger lunch! I think you owe me a drink after that bit of news!"

"I am … sorry, Andrew," Foyle said. "I would never … I was very young. There was never anyone else, after your mother."

"No," Andrew said. "_I'm_ sorry. Poor old Dad. And poor old Jack. What a bloody mess!" He glanced sideways at his father with a rueful grin. "God, no wonder you kept banging on about 'being careful'!" He pulled a face. "And what a complete prig _I_ was, telling you off for it."

"Perhaps … a _little_," Foyle said judiciously.

"Does _he _know?" Andrew asked, and at Foyle's nod: "And he knows that you're telling me?"

"I felt he had a right to know that," Foyle said. "There's a … _sizable_ inheritance. And a title. If this were widely known, there'd doubtless be legal challenges. Successful or not, his mother's name would be smeared, and he'd be … tied up in the courts for years. So, yes, he knows I'm telling you. And he hopes, we both hope, you'll be discreet."

"Yes, of course," Andrew said automatically. He rubbed his forehead. "Christ, what an absolute googly. Sir Charles _Devereaux_? I read about that trial."

"All of England read about that trial," Foyle said dryly.

"Poor bastard," Andrew said. "Jack, I mean. Losing Mum was _hard_ but …" He shrugged. "I can't even _imagine_ what it must have been like for _him_."

"Yes," Foyle said quietly.

"And there weren't any other children, were there?" Andrew asked. "I remember reading that."

"No," Foyle confirmed. "No other children."

"Would you mind if I sent him a note?" Andrew asked.

Foyle considered. "No-ot sure I have the right to _stop_ you," he said. "Saying what?"

"Asking him for a drink," Andrew said. "Isn't that what one does? In circumstances like these?"

"Not really sure of the etiquette, myself," Foyle said wryly.

"Emily Post might have something," Andrew said. He grinned. "It does seem rather an _American _situation, doesn't it?"

Foyle paused, chewing the inside of his cheek. "He … mi-ght not fancy accepting the invitation," he suggested delicately.

"That's up to him," Andrew said, and shrugged. "If he doesn't want anything to do with me, well, I can understand that. The news must have been even more of a shock for _him_. But … I'd feel rather a rotter if I didn't at least make some sort of effort. After all, it's not like he's got anyone else, is it? At least I've got _you_."

"Oh thank you _very_ much," Foyle said dryly.

"You know what I mean," Andrew said affectionately.

"I do," Foyle said. He touched his son's shoulder briefly. "And I think sending him a note would be a good thing to do. Whatever Emily Post might say. I'm … I've always been proud of you, Andrew, never prouder than right now. Your mother would say the same."

Andrew dropped his head, scrubbed a hand across his eyes, then sat up. "Thanks," he said, and gave his father a sidelong grin. "But don't think that gets you out of the drink you owe me."

Foyle rose to his feet. "Come on, then," he said. "By the time we get to the pub it'll be opening hours."

.

.

.

* * *

A/n: Googly - A wrist-spinner's off-break, bowled with an action similar to that for the leg-break.

Emily Post's guide to etiquette was first published in America in 1922.


	8. She Knows All

CRVLO ZTXEZ EZMGL SSMCL FPLFT RAJBW IFJGD MOVSE FYZPR TWCJT DSFRZ SWQPB TIZFY H

11 October 1946

* * *

Sam fairly leapt at the phone when it rang. She might be feeling a bit squiffy in the tummy in the mornings, and standing up might now bring a whole new range of hazards, but that didn't mean her _brain _was disengaged, and after a day spent helping Mr Foyle, time at home was even more tedious.

"Peckham 6321," she said into the receiver.

"Hello," a woman's voice said hesitantly. "I'm … supposed to call this number?"

"Susan Havers?" Sam said. "Oh, gosh, yes."

"Why?" the woman said.

Sam ran through possible explanations. _We need you to solve armed robberies … no, best not. _"Adam," she said. "Adam Wainwright. Do you remember him?"

"Yes," Susan said cautiously.

"He's my husband. I mean, I'm his wife. Well, both. Sam Wainwright. That's me! Adam's wife." Aware she was rabbiting on, Sam took a deep breath. "Miss Havers. Thank you _so_ much for calling. Adam and I would be delighted if you would join us for dinner." When there was only silence at the other end of the line, she went on: "We've got a sort of puzzle, and Adam remembered you were very good with crosswords."

"A puzzle?" Susan asked, and Sam thought triumphantly _Hooked you!_

"Yes," she said. "A very difficult one. It's much easier to explain in person, though."

"I see," Susan said. "Well, I … I suppose I could … when would suit?"

"How about tonight?" Sam said quickly.

"Oh, I don't know if I could …" Susan said. "Tonight …"

_Blast!_ Sam thought. _Mr Foyle always says, don't reel them in too fast or the line breaks_. "Short notice, I know," she said breezily. "But Adam - he's an MP now - he has so many dinners and so on it's hard to find a time, but tonight is free."

"I, um, see," Susan said. "Well, I suppose …"

"Seven o'clock," Sam said, and gave the address. As soon as Susan gave hesitant agreement, Sam said goodbye and rang off before the other woman could change her mind, and then immediately rang Mr Foyle's hotel. He wasn't in, but she left a message, and then found her hat and coat and hurried to the shops to see what sort of dinner rations could provide _this_ time.

For once, Adam was home before seven, and even provided some assistance in the kitchen, although he was still barely more help than hindrance. Mr Foyle arrived at half-six, with several thick folders of files and notes, took in the situation at a glance, and took off his jacket and rolled up his sleeves. Sam gratefully shooed Adam out of the kitchen. With Mr Foyle's help, everything was ready by the time there was a knock at the door at precisely seven o'clock.

Adam answered it. A moment later he led a slight, dark-haired woman into the dining room. "Susan, this is my wife, Sam, and our friend, Mr Foyle."

"Hello," Sam said, shaking Susan Havers' hand. "I'm very pleased to meet you."

"Thank you so much for inviting me," Susan said. Her smile was wide, her handshake brisk and businesslike. "You have a lovely home."

"We have a _pre-fab_ home," Sam said frankly. "But it's a roof, and it's over our heads, and Jerry hasn't dropped a bomb on it, which puts it _streets_ ahead of several other roofs I've had in recent years."

Susan's gaze darted to hers for a moment, her expression suddenly intent, assessing — and then the smile was back, disguising whatever was behind her eyes. "Yes, of course," she said automatically.

Mr Foyle stepped forward, offering his hand. "Miss Havers," he said. "I'm also very glad to meet you." He paused. "I should perhaps warn you, the _Times_ is under the impression you're engaged to marry my son."

That got a wide-eyed stare from Susan Havers. Mr Foyle smiled, and recounted the story of how he'd persuaded the _Times_ crossword compiler to put a message in the crossword, and Sam could see Susan relaxing a little as he played up the comedy of the encounter.

"Still, it was a risk," she said when he'd finished. "What if I hadn't put the answers together to see the message?"

"Then you wouldn't have been the person we need," Mr Foyle said.

"I see," Susan said. She looked down, pleating the cuff of her blouse between forefinger and thumb. "I - I - I don't know what Adam had told you, but I —"

"What you did during the war is no concern of mine," Mr Foyle said quickly. "I understand the Official Secrets Act."

"I see," Susan said again.

"Mrs Wainwright may have told you, I was a policeman. I'm retired, now, but I'm looking into a case for a colleague," Mr Foyle said. "We haven't been able to make sense of it. In fact, Miss Havers, you could say it's … _an enigma_."

There was an odd silence that Sam couldn't understand, and then Susan said: "I could … try, I suppose."

"Thank you," Mr Foyle said. "I have some files … for after dinner, perhaps?"

"I could look at them now," Susan said promptly. Her voice held a note that Sam recognised: her own voice had had that exact same note when Mr Foyle had asked if she had time to help him with his investigation. _I can be useful … let me be useful, please._

"Dinner will be a little while," she said. "Why don't you show Susan the files, Mr Foyle, while I check the potatoes?"

She flapped her ears as hard as she could while she banged pots in the kitchen, but all she could make out was the murmur of voices. When she returned to the dining room with the tomato juice cocktails she'd decided on for entrees, _although cocktails isn't really the right word given the complete lack of alcohol_, the sofa, chairs and coffee table were covered with sheets of paper, Susan perched in the middle on them reading intently.

"I've —" Sam started, and Adam raised a warning hand. She bit her lip, and handed out the cocktails, putting Susan's discreetly by her hand, and went into the kitchen to turn down the potatoes.

She'd done so twice more before Susan looked up from the paper.

"That police officer, who told you they were the same men, he's right," she said.

"Always the same number," Mr Foyle started, and Susan raised a hand, shaking her head.

"_That's_ not conclusive. Indicative, yes, but …" She leafed through the papers. "The witness statements. The man in charge went to a minor public school; the one who sets the explosives for the safes, when they're present, is five foot seven; one of the men who collect valuables from the victims uses American terms and phrases but has a London accent." She paused, looking down at her hands. "Numbers might be coincidental. Details aren't."

"What else?" Mr Foyle asked.

"They're getting worse," Susan said. "If you do a vector analysis on the crimes — "

"A vector analysis?" Sam asked.

"The differentiation and integration of vector fields, primarily in 3-dimensional Euclidean …" Susan gave a little nervous laugh. "Never mind. It's a - it's a way of studying patterns and changes in patterns. Anyway. The crimes. They're getting closer together, and more violent. That's clear. See … see _here_ -" She opened the folders, hands shaking, and spilled papers across the dining table. "This one is the first one. Last May. No injuries. No shots fired. But in June they fired at the ceiling, and in July, over the heads of the victims."

"But it was the _second_ last one where they broke the old man's hands," Foyle said. "The most recent was less violent."

"Yes but that was _necessary_," Susan said eagerly. "You have to look at the changes that are dictated by the pattern maker, not the circumstances."

"So they're making a pattern?" Adam asked.

"Of _course _they are," Susan said. "They couldn't _not _make one."

"What if they …" Sam started. Everyone looked at her, and she felt a fiery blush wash up her cheeks, but continued on doggedly: "What if they _know_ that, and do the opposite?"

"It's not like that, Sam," Adam said., but Susan interrupted him.

"They might _try_," she said, "but that would make a new pattern. A different one, a more _difficult_ one, but still, a pattern."

"And can you find that pattern?" Mr Foyle asked.

Susan shook her head. "I can't," she said. "Not with this data."

Mr Foyle paused. "Well, thank you very much for — "

"You don't understand," Susan interrupted, and then gave him a wide, false smile of apology. "Sorry. Sorry. But that's not what I meant. It _is _doable. But not like this. There's too many unknown variables," Susan said. She made a little fidgety movement, finger and thumb together, as if drawing an invisible stitch. "As a policeman, you can tell when someone is telling the truth, yes?" At Mr Foyle's nod, she went on: "Because of the _way _they speak, as well as what they say — the hesitations, whether they look at you or not, if they say 'um'. Yes?"

"Yes," Mr Foyle agreed.

"But if all you have is a transcript of what they said to some _other_ policeman, and the person making the transcript didn't pay attention to those things, you wouldn't be able to tell, right? And these-" She held up the papers. "These are a transcript. I need to see the actual witness. Not the actual witnesses in these cases, I mean, but the whole files. The details. These notes … there's not enough data in them to eliminate any of the possibilities. It possible, oh yes, it's possible, but not based on this."

Mr Foyle glanced at her. "But it's possible?"

"It's always possible," Susan said. She rose to her feet and took a quick step away, whirled back. "There's always a pattern, whether it's deliberate or not, we can't help making them. There _is_ a pattern. But I don't have enough data." Her gaze was too intense, and then, as if realising it, she looked away, produced that fake smile again.

"I don't know if I can get those files for you," Mr Foyle said. "No-ot … because I'm unwilling. But this is not … _official._"

"I can, though. Maybe. I know someone," Susan said. "If I can talk to her, if that's alright with you."

"She's trustworthy?" Mr Foyle asked.

Susan gave a little laugh, as if he'd asked the most ridiculous question in the world. "I knew her during the war."

Mr Foyle nodded. "And?"

"Maps. Which means someone who understands maps." She gave the little laugh again. "And someone who can make sense of all that data. I know who. I know exactly who."

"From the war?" Mr Foyle asked.

Susan looked away.

"They belong to the same … crossword club as you?" Sam asked, and Susan gave her a grateful smile.

"They're good at working things out," she said.

"But you're sure these crimes are connected?" Mr Foyle asked.

Susan looked at him as if he'd asked _Are you sure the sun rises in the east?_ "Of course. Of course they are." She paused. "If that's all you need, I can tell you that now. But I thought …"

"Thought what?" Adam asked.

Susan blinked at him. "Don't you want to know who did them?" she asked.

"I'd very much like to know that," Mr Foyle said mildly. "Are you saying you can work that out?"

"Oh, yes," Susan said with utter certainty.

Sam cleared her throat. "Perhaps," she suggested, "you'd like to have dinner first?"


End file.
